my words have always been
better painted than spoken
the patterns of my voice are quite
distressed and broken
and when i open up my lips,
do i s-s-s-s-stutter
do i stumble from the clutter
of every sound i try to mutter?

letters stitched together
into a literary leather
didn't realize
they've been comprised
of the worst possible weather
as they sweat
and part right at the seams
demolishing my linguist dreams
tying all my thoughts
into the knots
that sailors twist up
on the streams

as for my tongue,
it's dry
quite cracked along the edges
and sides
i hope for harps
when i loosen my lips
but it sounds like bagpipes
played by a person
who would never get tips
and they would starve to death
in the street
of a city
while the horns beeped rapidly
angry at the inconvenience
of their passing
no, i'm not crazy
but thank you for asking